


A Tale of Bunny and Stone; Touch Like a Prayer, Like Loneliness (A Continuance)

by beauty_love_stardust



Series: A Tale of Bunny and Stone Series [2]
Category: 13 Reasons Why (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Porn, Barebacking, Canonical Character Death, Cliffs of Insanity, Codependency, Consensual Somnophilia, Dark Character, Dark Past, Dominance, Dreams and Nightmares, Dry Orgasm, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Porn, Emotional Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Exploration, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Games, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Guilty Pleasures, Hand Jobs, Healing, Healing Sex, Heavy Angst, Horny Teenagers, I Don't Even Know, Identity Porn, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kissing, Lost Love, Love Confessions, Lust, Mental Anguish, Mind Games, Morning Kisses, Multiple Orgasms, Multiple Personalities, Nightmares, Obsession, Obsessive Behavior, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Past Abuse, Please Don't Hate Me, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Rape Recovery, Rough Kissing, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Sex, Sex Games, Sexual Content, Sexual Roleplay, Sexual Tension, Simultaneous Orgasm, Sleep Groping, Sleep Sex, Sleeping Together, Sleepy Kisses, Touch-Starved, Touching, Trauma, Triggers, Twisted, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Vaginal Sex, Wake-Up Sex, What Have I Done, ga - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:26:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25638748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beauty_love_stardust/pseuds/beauty_love_stardust
Summary: Sometimes the nightmares wake him ... this time it's something else ... something softer ....(AN: This is a continuation of the story I wrote a month or so ago, when I watched the final season. I keep re-reading what I wrote and find my mind wandering to a whole bunch of varied 'how do they get to the end?' sort of scenario. So this work is going to be fragments of their time spent in their self-made oasis, between the time they start up a comforting cycle with each other, and between the end where they realize they've found true happiness together. SO this will be all the stuff I didn't add, but mostly summarized while writing! This won't be told linear, so there may be parts added from the end, then the beginning. I will add them as inspiration strikes! I hope you all enjoy! I recommend reading the first work in this series first, but you don't necessarily have to.)(Bonus Fanvid at the end.)
Relationships: Jessica Davis/Clay Jensen
Series: A Tale of Bunny and Stone Series [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1858612
Comments: 22
Kudos: 10





	1. i. kinds of touch & nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> _Every fragment will have an overarching theme attached. This one is touch. It takes place about one week after they first come together and is when they are still getting to know one another. Enjoy!_

_**A Tale of Bunny and Stone; Touch Like a Prayer, Like Loneliness (A Continuance)** _

_Fragments._

* * *

> _Touch me when I ask_
> 
> _Touch me when I’m afraid to ask._
> 
> _Touch me with your lips,_
> 
> _your hands,_
> 
> _your heart,_
> 
> _your presence in the room._

* * *

_i. kinds of touch & nightmares_

There’s this _cold_ **_fire_** that makes him hot and sweaty. The sweat has stuck his shirt to his chest, while his _breathing_ has heightened.

Swirls of those that have died, encroach on his consciousness.

He’s _haunted_ by Hannah, Monty, Bryce … **_Justin_** …

 _All_ of them.

It’s like this turmoil that never quite subsides and makes his sleep life, like a web of tangled pieces that cling and suffocate him, until he can’t breathe – _can’t_ **_think_**.

He wants to scream, because it’s _always_ like this … always like his skin might _claw_ off his **_bones_** , and his mind might implode, refusing to function.

Hannah is in front of him in the dream, with tear-filled eyes, and a crooked smile on her lips. Her touch comes in a second of weakness. He feels it on his face, swiping at his cheek, rubbing, easing the skin.

Then, suddenly, there is a scorching _explosion_ of pleasure that’s begun to boil in his belly, then sink, rapidly settling lower in his pelvis, spreading to his balls which respond with a _clench_. And he jerks – _simpers_ , still in the throes of his dream.

But it’s _Hannah’s_ hand that’s sunk beneath the waistband of his jeans. **_Her_** touch that sets his skin _alight_ , heart skidding in his chest.

And he _wants_ – he **_needs_** – to _kiss_ her.

It’s compulsive and **_everywhere_**.

What began as a ferocious nightmare, has shifted into this pleasantness, he doesn’t know how, **_not_** to feel.

His hips, angle toward that _delicious_ touch – and he seeks her _neck_ with his lips, eager to find solace in a nook or cranny, somewhere across the landscape of her skin.

His hands _seek_ and find the luscious curves of her waist, dipping along her developing skin, touching the _generous_ mounds of her breasts that protrude under the fabric of her clothes.

Meanwhile, her hand’s jerking faster. Skimming up and down the length of where he’s now _brutally_ hard and **_aching_**. Clay’s lips part, opening to suck at the salty tang of her skin, and knows he’s not far off from that release he’s chasing.

He prays she **_won’t_** stop – she isn’t just _teasing_ him … and finds his prayer is answered.

She gives a few more skitters with her wrist, then he’s crying out, into her skin, bucking his hips, while he spills spurt after spurt of his seed out into his plaid boxers for her.

He _wrenches_ his eyes open, and finds darkness meets him – **_encroaches_** on him.

Hannah’s disappeared, the dream with it, and in Hannah’s place is Jess.

She’s _horizontal_ on Justin’s bed, where they’d fallen asleep hours ago. He feels her hand, really **_is_** down the front of his boxers, and she’s been **_soothing_** him.

 _Words_ … **_whispers_** … _touches_ … _the whole nine yards_ …

The hand that’s not down his boxers is tangled in his short dark-brown hair, keeping his head pushed into her neck, allowing his hands to stay latched on to both of her sides. And it is _sexual_ release – **_pleasure_** – he’s woken up to.

Not _screams_ and **_sweat_** , like he’s used to.

“Shh … That’s it, Baby … that’s it … let it out … you’re _safe_ , now, you’re **_safe_** …” she’s cooing into his ear, with little _hitches_ in her breath, whenever _his_ hands venture over a weak spot on her bodice.

It’s been a week since he first summoned, **_his_** , Justin from his various personalities and given Jess his true virginity – offering her comfort through their _shared_ mourning of Justin.

She’s not left _Justin’s_ bed – and he’s not left **_her_**.

But this is the _first_ nightmare he’s had at her side. The first bad one that’s caused him **_pain_**. Real, _heart-wrenching_ pain.

Had he been crying out? He _must_ have been. Otherwise **_she’d_** not be awake and fondling him.

He’s shivering up his spine, coming down from the intense peak she drove him to – _then over_ – and he’s grateful that she gave him a gentler wake-up than he’s used to.

More than once, his dreams have become _so_ violent, he’d woken up by crashing _unceremoniously_ down onto the floor, in the middle of all-out thrashing with his arms and legs.

“J-Jess …” he breathes her name, wondering if he’d breathed Hannah’s while he was still in the between of sleep and wakefulness.

She stops her gentle stroking of his spent, manhood, and drags her nails over his side, tenderly.

“You were having a nightmare, Clay,” she breathes in her calmest tone. “I wanted to make it better …” She looks _worried_ , for a split-second.

Clay wonders if she’s afraid he might be _angry_ about the mess she’d caused him to make of his boxers, but he’s _not_.

It felt like heavenly bliss, _her_ **_touch_** , and he doesn’t know how to be angry about what she’s done. Jess knows what it is to _hurt_. He senses her hurt, _even now_.

She’s missing Justin, same as he’s _always_ going to miss Hannah.

It’s a sloppy, endless, circle that never stops turning, leaving trails of pain in its wake.

He is _embarrassed_ , only because he came so _quickly_. It was _seconds_ of her touch, maybe a minute, then he’d _spilled_. He wasn’t like Justin. He wasn’t experienced with _this_ … wasn’t able to _control_ – **_contain_** – his erections and orgasms.

He’s ashamed of how eager he _always_ gets when they do this – when they _satiate_ each other with sexual proclivities and _fresh_ memories.

It’s a lot.

He’s gone from zero to one-hundred with her in next to _no_ time at all.

One day, Justin was _gone_ , and the next, he was finding a **_home_** , buried _in_ Jess.

His nightmares manifested as **_guilt_**. Justin had been in the dream _before_ Hannah. He could vaguely remember the verbal argument he’d had over Jess, **_with_** Justin. This all stemmed from his own subconscious, petrified of Justin’s eternal wrath, from _beyond_ the grave.

What does Justin think of him, helping Jess _grieve_ through **_sex?_** Through **_intimacy?_**

Clay _can’t_ answer, because he doesn’t **_know_**.

But he feels the _press_ of Justin, **_everywhere_**. This is _his_ bed they are laying in for fuck’s sake.

Clay lifts one of his hands, cups her cheek and draws her face in close, devouring her lips in a passionate kiss. He wants her to _taste_ his longing – **_feel_** his gratitude, at her kindness, before he puts it into _words_.

“I’m not _mad_ , Jess. You **_did_** make it better,” he confesses, brushing her bottom lip with his thumb.

She softens, a little, and he takes note of that _sadness_ , still reflected in her dusky-brown eyes. He believes it’s always going to be there, she’s just not learned to mask her brokenness, yet.

And she certainly doesn’t have to – need to – around him. They’ve delved into the darkest depravities, hand in hand, each day in this oasis they’ve created, together. There’s nothing more intimate than what they’ve **_done_**.

“You _constantly_ make me better, I wanted to _return_ the favor,” she admits, soberly.

Clay’s heart tugs and he _steals_ another kiss from her pout.

They’ve become dependent on each other. He **_knows_** they have, but he doesn’t mind it in the least.

He’s still pulsing with _heated_ blood from his release, and he doesn’t want to keep his hands off of her, now. Her special wake-up call, made him _needy_.

“I want to **_shower_** with you … right now,” he pants, insinuating his intentions, feeling the drive of his teenage hormones, rocketing through him.

She doesn’t object. It takes only minutes for them to _scramble_ out of bed, sneak into the house ( _quietly_ ) tiptoe up the stairs, and into the bathroom, to shower.

Despite their _varied_ intimacies over the past week, Clay still has turning, _twisting_ sensations that agitate his stomach, whenever he has to _fully_ strip down in front of her. **_Especially_** in the _light_.

And she’d flicked the bathroom light _on_ , habitually, the second they’d crept inside.

Jess is _alarmingly_ beautiful. He never noticed before, when she was **_Justin’s_** girl – when he didn’t have a chance in _hell_ at landing her in his bed, or his arms. He’d spent so long lusting after Hannah, then _mourning_ her, he’d never _noticed_ any other girls _at_ school.

And he feels immense boughs of guilt for noticing, _now_ , because it feels like he’s _betraying_ Hannah, but he _does_ – **_notice_**.

The way her brownish skin gleams in the light, how her hips round _perfectly_ , and her waist dips in at the sides making a perfect arc at her ribs. Even the valley between her thighs, is perfectly shaped in a _‘V’_ and she keeps the skin smoothly shaven. He’s watched her stroke away the little bits of hair that grow, every other day when they shower.

She’s _perfect_.

And he finds flaws at _every_ corner of **_his_** body.

His chest isn’t _built_ , neither are his _biceps_. He’s too **_skinny_** , his ribs stick out, and his chest has a few hairs between his pecs at the top. He doesn’t like how _tight_ his skin feels when he’s naked in front of her prying eyes. And he _hesitates_ , every time he has to remove his clothes in the bathroom, while her curious eyes, _watch_. He can’t tell what she’s thinking when she looks at him and that’s what unnerves him, most – the not **_knowing_** …

She’s already carefully set aside, Justin’s, letterman jacket and t-shirt. She’s even slid down and off, Justin’s, boxers.

He’s the only one still standing in his seed-stained ones, gray t-shirt, still soaked through with sweat.

He doesn’t _like_ to be vulnerable, he’s not _handsome_ – not **_beautiful_** – like _she_ is.

Jess _knows_ his hesitation, she **_anticipates_** it, he can tell. There’s this little _slant_ of understanding in her eye. She comes towards him, plants her hands on his chest, through his shirt, and _eases_ the muscles of his shoulders. Tries to settle him, because he’s begun to _hyperventilate_ (and hadn’t even _realized_ it) which is the _first_ sign of a panic attack.

He’s had them so frequently he knows _all_ the signs – though there’s _little_ he can do to prevent the **_onset_** of one.

Jess aims to fix that, though, repair his senses – his unnecessary fears – through _touch_.

“It’s _alright_ , Clay,” she trails her fingers down, letting her thumbs trace his nipples through his shirt, “there’s no _judgement_ here.”

He _tries_ hard not to think about his own imperfections, but they’re _always_ there … **_taunting_** _him_. Consistent reminders of why he isn’t _good_ _enough_ for Jess. Why she’d never be with him if Justin weren’t **_dead_** … but he can’t fault her for that, because Justin’s her _soulmate_.

 _His_ _soulmate’s dead, too._

But it reminds him he’s undesirable. Girls used to think he was _gay_ , which is telling enough.

If Justin were here, he’d call him a _prude_.

“You’re _perfect_ … and I’m so …” he clenches his eyes shut, feeling the sensation of his own inadequacies sink in, “… **_not_** ,” he huffs out through a steep breath, still unwilling to reopen his eyes.

Her fingers still work him, rub and knead his stomach, where his nonexistent **_abs_** should be.

“No one’s **_fully_** _perfect_ , Clay,” she counters, and he feels her fingers delve up, cupping his neck, brushing the sensitive curve, “but you have _perfect_ **_places_** on you, too. And even the imperfections … they don’t make you any _less_ , handsome, Clay. Not to _me_ ,” her voice begins to turn low and sultry, while her hands still explore and rub his keening epidermis through his clothes. “It all makes me _want_ you, that much more. You may give me _Justin_ … be my **_second_** Justin … but I want _you_ , too, Clay. I feel **_you_** in there, too …”

What she’s saying _shouldn’t_ make sense. It shouldn’t invade and sear itself into the parameters of his mind and latch on, but it _does_ – it **_has_**.

And she’s making him _burn_ for her. Burn, all over, just like moments ago, on Justin’s bed.

He _feels_ her – understands the coping methods they’re using to pull each other _through_ this.

“I see **_you_** , Clay … not _only_ Justin …” she reaches for one of his hands, guides it down between her thighs, lets his fingers explore the sodden folds, and he gasps, feeling how _slick_ her entrance is, “ _Feel_ that, Clay? I’m _wet_ for you …”

He shouldn’t be _so_ turned on … but he **_is_**. God – he’s ready to have **_another_** premature ejaculation from just _feeling_ how undeniably drenched she is. It’s like a little piece of **_bliss_** – of _heaven_.

He finally trusts himself enough to open his eyes. He no longer feels like he might _panic_ and meltdown. Now, he just wants to be **_out_** of his confining clothes. They feel too **_tight_** – _too soiled_ – and he just wants his skin _bare_ so he can feel **_hers_** pressed against it.

“J-Jess …” her name spills out of his mouth; he’s actually _panting_ for her.

With baited breath, he retracts his hand, using all of his willpower to briskly peel his shirt off, then wiggle down his boxers.

There isn’t any more time for him to feel self-conscious about his inadequacies, because he’s **_too_** worked-up.

She’s all _quirked_ brows and **_tantalizing_** eyes – and he’s trying like _hell_ to **_just_** keep it together.

He’s lifted her, carried her into the shower, and _under_ the warming stream (before she can even react) stealing a _kiss_ from the soft, silkiness of her lips.

She returns it with fervor, latching on to his skin, wherever she _can_ , adapting briskly to this sudden turn of events. He can almost **_taste_** her need – it’s sheltering under her skin, laid _bare_.

Clay doesn’t _question_ how he’s fully erect and raring to go a second round, already. He chalks it down to being a _teenager_ and years’ worth of horniness and _frustration_ that he’s been tortured by, unable to take any of it out _inside_ a girl, before last week. He used to use a firmly cupped fist to alleviate what he _could_ – but it didn’t compare to what it feels like to have a **_real_** cunt to push into.

He’s about to will his mind away – about to abate so that **_his_** Justin can take the reins – but Jess is grasping at his cheeks, breaking apart their kiss, _knowingly_.

“Don’t **_leave_** , Clay … I want _you_ , this time. Give me **_you_** …” she says it so certainly, it has his heart twinging.

He sees the truth in her eyes, sees that she’s sincere – she actually _wants_ **_him_** …

And it’s the _first_ time. The first time she’s asked for **_him_** … _Clay Jensen_ , in the past week. It’s _always_ been Justin. Plain as that …

“Why do you want _me?_ Huh? I’m nothing special, Jess …” he sighs out into the heat of the water stream, raining down his back. He bunches his shoulders, _tightly_ , soaking it in.

“Because this time, you’re going to imagine _I’m_ Hannah, Clay. This time, it’s going to be about _you_ …” she breathes in this docile whisper that has him tense in a second.

“W-What? **_No_** …” he whispers back, a sudden sinking sensation rooting in his stomach.

He’s reluctant, because he doesn’t _want_ to feel shame.

He’s already apologized for the first night they laid together, (despite her _repeated_ assurances that he shouldn’t _be_ sorry) entwined and frenzied … How he’d breathed out Hannah’s name at the **_height_** of his ecstasy. It was a _reaction_ , one that had come upon him all of a sudden because he’d always _dreamed_ of Hannah. And he’d grown _used_ to moaning for her when he jacked himself, **_privately_**.

That was all it was … all it _could_ be … because Hannah was **_never_** his. Not in the way Justin was Jess’. And the way he saw it, he had no _right_ to latch on to Jess and pretend **_she_** was Hannah … at least … not _outwardly_ … not for Jess to know about …

“Yes,” she brushes her hands up along his chest, “Clay, you were **_moaning_** for her in your sleep. You have more than _once_ this past week we’ve spent together. I touched you this morning to give you a _taste_ of her. You saw _her_ , didn’t you? In your _dream?_ ”

Clay’s heart tore and he closed his eyes, at the beginning stages of panic. He could feel his muscles _quiver_ , anxiety pulsed under his skin. He was trying not to think about how upset Hannah would be if she were watching him from heaven.

Would she _hate_ him? For even **_considering_** Jess’ proposition?

“Jess … don’t … _please_ …” he finds solace at her neck, tries to kiss at her skin to fight the anxiety, but he still feels _uneven_.

He wants, desperately, to concede and give in to the temptation of using, Jess, the way he’s been allowing her to use him … but it feels so _wrong_. So, twisted to close his eyes and imagine her skin is Hannah’s, that her seductive, needy body … **_is_** Hannah’s.

“Why not? Huh? You’ve given me, _Justin_ …” Jess’s fingers rest at his shoulders, to balance herself.

He’s still holding her pinned to the tile, with this need thrumming through him, and now his _central_ focus is on Hannah.

“Because she isn’t _mine_ , Jess … She has **_never_** been mine …” he tries to reason, with broken little words, but he feels he falls short when it comes to describing his _distinct_ anguish.

“Oh, _Clay_ …” Jess coos, smoothing her hands up and down his neck, comfortingly. “You’re the only boy in the _world_ that she loved, that loved her back with all his _heart_. And you’re _still_ in love with her. You’re always _going_ to be in love with her,” Jess continued, “and you’ll go _mad_ if you try to keep it all inside.”

He has to push one of his hands against the wall to keep from _squeezing_ her in his agony. He doesn’t **_want_** to abuse her … he knows she still suffers from what _Bryce_ did to her. She’s **_always_** going to suffer … just like he’s _clearly_ meant to.

“That’s **_my_** burden, Jess. It needs to _stay_ locked away,” he persists, through a cracked voice.

Jess kisses at the side of his neck, then brushes her fingers down until they graze against his hard-on. She rubs at him, there, for just a few moments and he instinctually, keens for her.

“I used to think you were _aggressive_ , did you know that, Clay?” Jess admits, in-between peppered kisses up his neck, then over his cheek.

He shakes his head, while still _barely_ keeping it together. She’s exciting him _right_ to the brink of another release, which has him trembling, _bodily_ , against her. She _abruptly_ stops rubbing him down there after a few seconds, seeming to notice his overexcitement for _herself_.

He breathes a sigh of _heavy_ relief.

“I don’t _think_ that anymore,” she proceeds. “I think you were so high-strung because you were a _virgin_ and horny all the time. _Frustrated_ , because you wanted Hannah and she was **_gone_**.”

Clay froze, locked rigid, trembling against her, again.

“You’re more docile, now that you have a way to _relieve_ those tensions. You’re soft and warm, and you touch me like you **_love_** me … you already touch me **_like_** I’m Hannah, so why not put her _name_ on your lips? Why not let yourself _feel_ her when you need to? Hm? Let me do this for you …” she’s pleading now and Clay feels helpless to keep fighting it.

Because he _wants_ Hannah. That’s not a secret, least of all from Jess, but it is his secret _shame,_ nonetheless … it will **_always_** be that …

“ _Jess_ …” he sighs, and it’s sad and sweet – because he just _can’t_ fight this, anymore.

The _wanting_. The tangent of emotions.

Maybe she senses the defeat in him, because her demeanor appears to change. He can feel it in the air, and in her **_every_** breath.

She’s starting to touch him, _everywhere_ , all at once. Her hands map out the curves and sinews of his skin and muscle. He weakens against her, from the tender touches, _breaks_ and cracks like unbuttered toast … and then she’s whispering near his left ear.

“Close your eyes, _Helmet_.”

He shivers through **_every_** faction of his body when she says that name.

He’s **_missed_** hearing it. Hannah calling him that.

His eyes close _instinctively_ , while his mind gives up the unendurable inner-war with his conscience.

Jess won’t back down and he can’t say he blames her. He knows she’s softened over the past week – grown to care for him in the only way she can.

“Touch me, _Helmet_ ,” seemingly encouraged by his compulsive reaction, she eggs him on, taking his extreme arousal and pushing him further into his need.

He wants to feel ashamed, but when he hears that special nickname that was _just_ Hannah’s and his … well, he finds himself caving to the **_fantasy_** of it all.

With tentative fingers he finds her skin and touches the curves, _pictures_ Hannah, imagines what her skin must have looked like, he can still recall with _vivid_ detail what it felt like to run his hands across her body, but he’d never seen her, under her clothes. Their sole make-out session had been heated and quick-paced, but he recalls how he’d touched her _everywhere_ through her clothes … her hips, sides, breasts … he’d felt her through the _‘hot and heavy’_ of the moment.

He still remembered every time he’d touched himself, after.

His fingers grow more frantic as he explores the heat of the body against him, thumbs her nipples, slants kisses _over_ her lips until they must be pink and swollen … and most of all, he ebbs _across_ her sides.

“Say my **_name_** , Helmet. _Feel **me**_ …” she rasps, between kisses in that low, salacious tone that mimics Hannah’s, _perfectly_ , against the loud spray of water, and appealing resonance of the bathroom.

“ _Hannah_ …” he immediately cries, because he does … he **_feels_** Hannah … he **_hears_** her …

It’s sick and it’s twisted but he _swears_ that he does …

Hands scope across his back and dip over his spine, rubbing the base, until he thrusts forward, grinding himself, effectively against the glorious _heat_ emanating from her sex. She moans from the friction he creates between them. He keeps his eyes tightly closed, hands **_everywhere_** , while somehow, also, managing to keep her pinned up.

“Fuck … Helmet …” she brushes her hands up the back of his neck, “… Need you _inside_ me … please …”

He’s too _hot_ – too **_frustrated_** – and way too _fucking_ **_needy_**.

His mind isn’t thinking straight anymore. All he feels is this mind-boggling _want_ , this compulsion to rut and hump until he’s _spent_ … because Hannah is the **_dream_** … she’s the **_everything_** that makes him whole and once gave him purpose and now he’s _so_ empty …

But if she’s _here_ , then he can feel something **_heavy_** in him – something actually **_real_** – and he _does_. He feels so put together – **_so real_** – and encompassed by love and need … by _everything_ she is.

Reacting to her pleas and his body’s _urges_ , he guides down a hand, positions at her entrance – then buries himself, balls-deep, in her mound.

She throws back her head, and lets out this languid whine that has him thrumming, everywhere with this imperative need. And he just _wants_ … he _wants_ and he begins to **_take_** … and he forgets it’s Jess. He forgets he should be gentle and careful … because he just wants to _lose_ himself. He just wants to be rough and **_take_** for once … He’s never been anything but a boy that _loves_ Hannah Baker. And he doesn’t want to remember that this is all just a fantasy – he wants to believe it’s real.

_So. **Badly**._

“Hannah … d-don’t leave me again … d-don’t ever l-leave me again … Hannah … I don’t w-want to be w-without you … I l-love you … f-fuck … H-Hannah …” his words take on a mind all their own. He remembers when Hannah’s personality _left_ him.

Walked through a white light in the church, at her funeral, and he’s not seen her _since_.

He used to talk to her … used to **_know_** she was closeby at the very least … but she’s **_gone_** now, utterly, impossible to _find_ , again. And that’s also what he hadn’t wanted to _confront_ … the loss of not just her, but her **_soul_** that once followed him and spoke to him … and **_tortured_** him.

“I w-won’t … **_f-fuck!_** … I’m right _here_ , Helmet … _right_ **_here_** …” she gasps out, between moans.

It all feels good and he feels _prickly_ , but it’s necessary. **_This_** is necessary.

He realizes that now, in the midst of _claiming_ her. And he suddenly feels the need to leave his _marks_ on her – to **_show_** he’s claimed her …

Clay tilts his head down, extending it enough to suck bruises into her neck and shoulder, while his hips arc and pound into her tight, heat. When he’s done _satisfactory_ at marking her, he finally opens his eyes … and he _sees_ Hannah – **_not_** Jess – staring back at him.

“ _Hannah_ …” tears fill his eyes and he surges forward and kisses her lips. Whines heatedly as he devours her lips, trying _despairingly_ to hold on to her. It’s the first time since the funeral … the very **_first_** he’s seen Hannah … It used to make him **_panicky_** when it happened while he was with Skye … but this is _different_ , this time it makes him **_tingle_** with warmth.

He’s surged with fire and wanton urgency – and it’s _all_ due to Hannah.

One last rut has him moan out his pleasure – has him wracked to the _skin_ and **_bone_** with it all, and he _clings_ to this vision of Hannah like she’s a _lifeline_ – or a hot ember that he doesn’t care about being _burned_ by – and he begins to cry.

It’s a release of emotion that has him _unraveling_ and he just wants to forget what he’s done, how he’s _sinned_ with Jess – made her the shadow of Hannah for his **_own_** pleasure …

While at the same time he’s so overcome with the opposite of guilt – **_satisfaction_** – that he doesn’t know _what_ to do.

She’s squeezing his cock around her walls, milking whatever he has in him, still, while he rises and _crashes_ at the same time – guilt and satisfaction, hand in hand – over and over, again.

He realizes he’s caught up in a whole _wave_ of orgasms, not just the one – and he’s reached heights he didn’t even know were possible, because of it.

“ _Hannah_ … _Hannah_ …” he’s repeating her name, constantly, like a mournful love call, and he hates how his cock jerks in reaction every time he **_says_** it …

She’s answering him with these little breathy gasps, “Right here, Helmet … Clay … Right _here_ …” and her heads still thrown back in apparent ecstasy, while they ride out the _emotions_ , together.

It’s a long time before he can crack open his eyes, again, and he’s blinded by the hazy shield of _tears_ in their wake. His heart beats a tattoo in his chest and he releases the _tiniest_ of sighs, when Jess thumbs them away and it’s _her_ – not Hannah – staring back at him.

His face crumbles and he shed more tears, immediately, as only the **_shame_** is left, now that the _pleasure_ is done …

“Kiss me, Clay … It’s okay, don’t feel _bad_ … Rules don’t exist here, not when we’re together. Don’t cry …” she’s attempting to encourage him, but he just feels fucked up by it. His _skin_ , his _bones_ – **_all_** of him. He’s just a _mountain_ of repulsive ache caused by **_touch_**.

He does though – he _kisses_ her – and it’s sweet and sensual, and he gives a little hump of his hips that keeps his slowly slackening prick nestled _up_ inside of her sex.

When the kiss breaks, he’s sobbing, hugging her tight to him.

“Don’t ask me to do that, _again_ , Jess … please … **_Never_** again …” he whimpers through wrenching sobs. He wants her to see what it’s done to him …

He feels too **_much_** for Hannah … and maybe Hannah’s _name_ might slip out while he’s **_with_** Jess … maybe he might think of her in the _privacy_ of his thoughts when they come together in bed … but it can’t be the way it is with her, him and **_his_** Justin … it just **_can’t_**.

It makes a raw ache spurn in him, and his mind plays tricks … it goes to places he doesn’t _want_ it to, and it’s too **_painful_**.

“ _Clay_ …” she whispers.

“Just promise me, Jess, _please_ … If I … If I ask like you asked _me_ for Justin … then you can give her to me … but … but _only_ if I ask, Jess …” he explains, sullenly, “… **_only_** if **_I_** ask …”

He sees her tears now. _She’s_ crying, too.

“I promise, Clay. _Never_ again …” she agrees, while stroking his cheek with her thumb, “Just know that I’m willing … if you need it – need her,” she elaborates.

Clay stifles a nod, leaking more tears, confirming that he understands. He knows what she’s willing – able – to do for him; to **_heal_** him …

He manages to stop his tears after a few more _moments_ of holding her, under the sweltering shower stream, recovering from the emotional _hurricane_ of it all.

When he finally lowers her _weakly_ to the bathtub surface, he sees her tremble a bit on her shaky legs, while clutching tight to his biceps to keep herself upright.

“Clay?” she breaks their silent fortitude.

“Hm?” he responds absently, still trying to erase the image of Hannah _pinned_ to the shower wall, from his mind. In truth he **_never_** wants to picture Hannah in a bathtub – **_ever_**. Because when he does … he sees _blood_ … and _death_ … and worst of all, **_Hannah_** , disappearing from _his_ world **_forever_** …

He’s lifted the shampoo, and is already working his fingers through Jess’s skelp when she answers, her back now to him and the wall acting as her support to stay upright, “Do you think … do you think we’ll _ever_ love like we loved _them?”_ she breathes the words in this airy coo, that has him _shivering_.

He closes his eyes, stilling his hands. He can _feel_ the soapy suds of shampoo and the thick curls of Jess’s hair … and he forces it to _ground_ him.

“I don’t know, Jess,” he finally responds, sadly. “It doesn’t _feel_ like it,” he admits. “It doesn’t feel like I **_ever_** will …”

He feels her nod under his massaging of her skelp and hears a few little sniffles from her nose and she reaches up to wipe at it, _bitterly_.

“Can you _promise_ me something, Clay?”

He soaps down the ends of her hair, still listening to her every breath. “ ** _Anything_** , Jess,” he answers almost instantly.

She turns when he releases her hair, and looks up at him with those captivating dark brown eyes. “Promise that … that if you _can’t_ love anyone else … if … if that isn’t **_possible_** … then we’ll take care of _each other?_ **_Always_** _?”_ she appears to be unsatisfied with her question because she reiterates, “It will just be me and you and at least we’ll have that? If we can’t have **_love_** … I mean …”

Clay feels his heart pulsate, skin _rush_ with a fresh wave of blood, and he slowly reaches for one of her hands, delicately clutching her fingers, then mutely brings them to his lips, kissing the digits.

After a moment of just glancing at her … letting their eyes _interlock_ and muddle … he nods his head.

“I _promise_ , Jess. I don’t know if it will be love that’s _proper_ … love like what you had with **_him_** …” he draws her in closer, “… but I do feel something **_more_** than lust and compulsion when we come together, Jess. And I **_do_** love you … you’ll **_always_** have my love, Jess …”

“I love you _too_ , Clay,” she says, with a sad little smile.

He has _no_ doubt that Jess loves him. Because he knows that **_he_** loves her, too. But it’s a _friendship_ , sort of love. It’s an all-consuming need to keep her safe and _protected_ , kind of love … not the thing of romance novels and _soulmates_.

He just _loves_ her, like **_he_** loves her – and that’s _all_ the **_definition_** he can give it.

Clay guides her head back, under the stream, helping to wash all the soap out of her hair. He finds they fall into a compulsory silence for a little while after their mutual agreements. It’s _quiet_ and genuine, between them. With water streams making a low hiss that soothes and brings up steam to fog the mirror and window.

He takes _advantage_ of the fact that she’s shorter than him and he’s able to draw her _back_ into his front, while he soaps up her body with his **_bare_** hands, rubbing her skin, still _teeming_ with sensitivity from their love-making, in all the places that make her shut her eyes and _whimper_ for him.

“You’re still _sensitive_ , aren’t you, Jess?” Clay teases in her ear, pushing one of his hands _down_ against her nether regions, pushing a few soaped-up fingers between her petals, dragging **_loosely_** around her still swollen, clit. She jerks and pushes _back_ into him with a gasp.

“Y-Yeah … Clay … don’t _tease_ …” she manages to rasp out, but he _ignores_ her, circling the tumescent button, _anyway_ , hearing her breath heighten and whimpers turn to little **_squeals_**. His spare hand ran up her front, _groping_ one of her breasts, thumbing her nipple, eagerly.

“You’re **_trembling_** , Jess …” he observes, haughtily, basking in the sight of her quivers, “… are you going to _cum_ on my fingers, Nancy?’ and suddenly **_his_** Justin has emerged and he didn’t even **_realize_** the transition was occurring, until it _has_.

The need to _touch_ … to make the shame and guilt that still plagues him abate some, his mind consciously needs to rest and **_his_** Justin wants **_his_** Jess, back … wants to remind her who she _truly_ belongs to – and it **_isn’t_** Clay.

“ _Justin_ …!” she exclaims unevenly, under a gasp.

“Well? Are you, Nance? Hm? Gonna _cum?”_ he continues to taunt, lovingly.

She pants, hotly, “Y-Yes …” that’s all she manages to say, _verbally_ , before he feels her clit pulsating against his fingers.

Her juices seep down her legs and wash down the drain along with the soap suds, because he uses that instant to guide her under the heated stream, watches her twitch and simper, while the arcing strings of water beat down on her skin, _forcing_ sensation **_everywhere_** they touch.

And she’s a beautiful mess of _noises_ and **_fire_**. He can see how she aches from the _overstimulation_ of it – and Clay feels his Justin revel in it, all. The **_beauty_** of her – the mastery of what he’s done to her with just a few simple finger strokes.

“J-Justin …” she cries over and over, thighs _squeezing_ around his hand so tight, he can barely move his fingers, but he **_manages_**.

Then, it’s over and she’s collapsed against him and she’s **_so_** tired that Clay finally forces himself back through, turning her around to hug her **_to_** him, feeling the remnants of **_his_** Justin fading back into his subconscious.

“Clay?” Jess sighs, because she _always_ seems to know when he’s changed back.

He nods, down at her, then steals a kiss from her lips.

“I want to go back to _bed_ , Clay … and I don’t want to _leave_ for the rest of the day …” she’s admitting and he quirks an eyebrow.

“You _don’t?”_

She shakes her head, “No, I want to _touch_ you again … I want to … I want to be **_lost_** in it for a while.” Her eyes grow distant.

“ ** _Lost_** in it?” he muses, softly.

She nods, again, “I want to be lost in _this_ , Clay … in what we _have_ …” she attempts to explain to him, “… can you give me _that?”_

Clay tilts his head forward and steals a kiss. “Course I can,” he vows in gentle whispers.

And he **_does_**.

He turns off the water, helps towel them both off, then collects their clothes, and guides her back down the stairs and into their little _oasis_.

And it’s _her_ touch he **_succumbs_** to, once they’re inside. He lets her draw out more orgasms from between his thighs, until he’s spilling into a towel she holds, warm and _ready_ against him. He lets her analyze and push her fingers _everywhere_ in exploration, until he’s writhing from the oversensitivity of it all, leaking _constantly_ across the fibers of the saturated towel.

It’s _bliss_ and **_tiresome_** , all at the same time.

She takes him to heights he never knew _possible_ and he lets his mind travel everywhere and **_nowhere_** all at once.

And he _moans_ for **_Hannah_** … _moans_ for **_Jess_** … moans because he doesn’t think he _can_ cum again – until _she_ proves him **_wrong_**.

By the time she’s had her _fill_ of his body, he’s lost _count_ of how long she’s been in control of it.

Her touch has ambled _everywhere_ and he keens high-pitched in his throat, while he writhes for her from just the **simplest** of touches to his pointed nipple peaks.

And she’s chased away his shame and _shock_ from earlier, by a mile … but that’s only because he can do little more than **_exist_** by her side, right now.

He’s so spent and near to passing out on Justin’s bed, he barely notices when she takes the towel and rubs it across his stomach to mop up the _last_ of his seed he’s leaked there.

He searches for her lips and _finds_ them, easily, kissing her while dragging his tongue across her lower lip. When their kiss subsides, he feels her press in _close_ for comfort and he coils his arm around her.

“Was that **_good_** for you, Clay?” she asks in this seductively low tone. “You’re so much more _sensitive_ than he was … Is it because you were a _virgin_ a week ago? Because you’ve waited so long to be **_with_** someone? Or maybe … is it because you’re so _anxious_ all the time? High-strung?”

Clay feels embarrassed when she plies him with _questions_ , and compares him inadvertently to Justin. He knows she means _nothing_ by it – the **_questions_**. He figures she only asks them to satiate some kind of _wicked_ curiosity of hers – or even to gauge _his_ reaction …

The questions don’t _sting_ any less – or stir up his anxieties any less _regardless_ of her reasoning, but he answers, anyway.

“You **_know_** it was, Jess …” he stirs a little, beside her, his muscles stiff from arching into her touches so often. The room smells of sex and sweat, even though he hasn’t touched her at all …

That, too, embarrasses him a little, makes him feel like he took _advantage_ of her a bit … not _returning_ the pleasure she doled out.

“Am I …? More _sensitive_ than him?” he knows that he can’t last nearly as _long_ in bed, as Justin could … but that stay of control hadn’t really _increased_ with every orgasm she coaxed out of him, _either_. In fact, he’d came **_quicker_** each time she touched him, because of how sensitive her touch drove him to _be_ …

Jess tilts her head a bit, then nods, “Yeah, _a lot_ more,” she stipulates. “You’re **_so_** sensitive, you’re almost like a _livewire_ , Clay. Your body’s practically **_trembling_** for it … for just a _caress_ … a **_flourish_** …” her wrist flicks and her fingertips drag up the center of his abdomen.

He does tremble then, because his skin feels positively electrified – and he _whimpers_.

“Maybe I should _keep_ going, huh? Would you _like_ that, Clay?”

He doesn’t have time to answer before her hand has traversed the short distance in order to reconnect with his _aching_ , over-sensitized manhood.

“F-Fuck!” he squeaks and pants, while she jacks him into the towel again, it’s _seconds_ this time – he can’t be sure _how_ many – and he’s caught in a series of partially _dry_ cums for her.

She’s mastered his body and he can’t say he _minds_ – because he doesn’t have to think about the _shame_ of it. She’s **_redirected_** his mind, forcing him to focus on _just_ the pleasure – the almost **_pain_** of being made to cum _again_ , to the touch of her eager fingers.

He doesn’t know how he’ll _ever_ stop himself from twitching at this point. It’s almost like they’re _part_ of him – _the_ _twitches_ – and he feels **_too_** sexually charged to overcome those bodily reactions.

“Look at _you_ … so **_flushed_** …” she preens in his ear, and he feels color spreading across his cheeks, encroaching on his neck. Maybe there is embarrassment, because he can’t stop himself.

He just wants to give in to what _she_ gives him. And he doesn’t even know _why_ she’s so intrigued by his body’s ability to dull down his mind and force him over _countless_ edges – but she seems **_fascinated_** by it. It’s embarrassing to him. He feels like a dog in rut, like he can’t stop _humping_ her hand for all the money in the world … and when she does, _finally_ , pull away again, he’s **_still_** rutting his hips up, like he wants _more_ … even though he could barely withstand what she’d already _given_.

“Jess … _can’t_ …” he manages to puff out a few words, but his mind is already shutting down.

His body is forcing him toward rest, he doesn’t have a _choice_ …

Those touches were like _fire_ and **_sin_** , and he’s been _powerless_ to deny that he’s chased and reveled in them.

“I _know_ , Clay …” she whispers, “Shh … _Rest_ now, okay? I’ll be _right_ here when you wake up … and we’ll _play_ some more … **_touch_** some more …” she promises.

He twitches _some_ , but manages a nod, before the darkness consumes him and he pictures _Hannah_ through the bleeding edges of his vision. And wishes for a second, it was _her_ touch – **_not_** Jess’s.

 _Always_ **_Hannah’s_** _touch_ …

* * *


	2. ii. kinds of sinful games & emphatic love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The overarching theme for this chapter is games! I really enjoyed writing this one, exploring these two is so much fun! I latch on to an idea and run with it. These two are the ultimate angst-fest, tbh. Enjoy, lovelies!

_fragments_.

* * *

> _Love is a game of_
> 
> _tic-tac-toe_
> 
> _constantly waiting for_
> 
> _the next x’s and o’s._

* * *

_ii. kinds of sinful games & emphatic love._

They’ve lingered in silence for a good _two_ hours. Clay sketching in his current sketchbook, Jess sprawled on her stomach with a book in hand and her feet swaying this way and that in the _air_ behind her, as she turns the pages.

Clay doesn’t know precisely _when_ he began to sketch _her_ , rather than the comic book-esque characters he’d **_meant_** to, but somewhere along the line he _has_.

He drew lines that _perfectly_ shape the curve of her back, the dips of her spine, and the wild array of her uncombed curls drawn back into a ponytail, that meet mid-way down her back. She’s slightly perched up by her elbows, and he can just note the **_thoughtful_** expression on her full lips.

She’s wearing Justin’s letterman jacket, accompanied with the skimpiest pair of darkish purple, cotton panties, he’s **_ever_** seen. The panties draw taut, barely covering a _portion_ of her cheeks, and he can see the small _damp_ patch in the panel, even from his vantage point, off to one side of her.

Jess is _nothing_ – if not **_distracting_** – and maybe that’s what drove him to begin _sketching_ her in the first place.

He squirms a bit, on Justin’s mattress, squeezes his thighs and notes the raging _erection_ he’s sporting for her. Clay has his doubts that Jess is even _aware_ of his plight, she hasn’t turned her attention from her reading in the past hours since she began, which has given him the distinct advantage of being able to peek up at her, **_unnoticed_** , while he sketches.

It’s pretty much been a _strange_ day, because when they woke Jess had only _kissed_ him, prior to setting about her reading, not caring to _shower_ when they first got up, like usual. She hadn’t even held his hand, or lost herself in their _usual_ comforts, merely stripped out of her _sleep_ clothes, draped herself in Justin’s jacket, and settled into _reading_.

He hadn’t asked, just figured it was a day for _lazing_ between them. But his mind still ventured toward her. It wasn’t entirely under his _conscious_ control, even, because these past uncounted weeks, had reshaped his mind, _melding_ him to her.

Unclenching his thighs, he _watches_ , soundlessly, while his prick sprang up to a _perfect_ point in his boxers. Sweat creeping under his shirt, while he traces the _final_ lines of Jess’s body down in his sketch.

He’s _barely_ able to hold the pencil, he’s _trembling_ from his prolonged arousal. He’s waited three **_hours_** to touch her – because he wanted the drawing _perfect_ …

Clay lowers his pencil to his sketch, then sets it aside on the bedside table.

He finally can’t _take_ the waiting any longer. And he wonders if Jess has been waiting for him to make the _first_ move. If she has, well … he’s finally ready to _make_ it.

He pushes himself onto his _knees_ and crawls to her, craning his neck, he kisses her cheek, and smooths a _hand_ over her spine, through the jacket.

She jumps, slightly, possibly startled, turning her head to _meet_ his dilated pupils, and parted lips.

“ _Jess?_ ” he croons, watching her eyes flicker down from his, and she appears to take in the _tent_ sprouted at his crotch.

“ _Jesus_ , Clay …” she breathes in a little pant, “… you have _quite_ the **_problem_** down here … don’t you?”

He can hear the playfulness in her voice, when she reaches out her hand and touches the bulge for herself, causing him to whimper.

“Yeah, I um …” he swallows, trying to reconvene his scrambled thoughts, “… I **_really_** need you, Jess …” he slides his hand down between her thighs, feels her legs part, _instinctively_ , for him, and she drives her hips forward, letting his fingers _explore_ , gently, against the damp spot she’s made in them.

He hears her breath _hitch_ , and she gasps his name, “ _Clay_ …” in sweet little bursts of sound. He can see her breasts, from where the jacket’s come _subtly_ open in the front, and her nipples have _hardened_ already.

She’s _trembling_ bodily, too.

“Do you _need_ me, Clay? Or do you just need me to make you **_cum_** _?_ Hm?” It’s a sort of mind game of hers, played while he’s at his _weakest_. When it’s difficult for him to make his mind _respond_ properly …

“What do you _mean?_ ” he breathes out through his confusion, unable to decipher her mix of words, when he’s _this_ unspeakably horny and already worked-up.

“Lay _down_ with me, Clay,” she beckons with her hand, and he complies. Withdrawing his fingers from where they’d been _teasing_ around her wet-spot.

She’s still lightly grazing him in his boxers, making little keens and simpers spill out, every now and again. He’s unable to lay still and that seems to _amuse_ her.

“Show me how _bad_ it is, Baby,” she urges, “the _longing_ … your **_lust_** …” he sees the dare in her gaze, this little flicker in her eyes, “… show me how much self-control you’ve _lost_ …”

He understands the challenge in her tone and set across her face. And he’s completely unable to fight against the _sensations_ she’s invoking with her delicate strokes to his manhood – and the **_taunt_** in her words.

It’s _overpowering!_

Clay surges forward and connects their lips, biting and **_kissing_** at them, nudging his nose to her nose, compulsively _pressing_ their bodies together in his haste and need. It’s like she’s a _drug_ and he’s unable to stop **_indulging_** in her, now that he’s _started_. It’s a _comfort_ to push his cock inside of her, every day, and a compulsion to slide his hands _everywhere_ he possibly can, while they kiss.

He’s practically **_ravenous_** for her. For what they _have_ – what they’ve _created_ in this room.

He pushes the front of the jacket open wider, then gropes at her breasts, palming the delicate skin, thumbing the nipples, cursing the curves of her waist, the incline of her hips – **_all_** of her – for being so damn _seductive_.

So, **_tempting_**.

“Please, Jess! _Please_! Is _this_ horny enough for you? N-Needy enough?” he’s listening to her gasps, feeling her _gyrate_ her hips, and squeeze her thighs, while he’s frenzied like spreading **_wildfire_** , before her.

She tilts her head, opening up her neck for him to **_attack_** , and he complies. Biting, nipping, _sucking_ at the skin, unflinchingly.

His blood is near to _boiling_ and **_scalding_** his veins, but she’s still taunting him like a cat with a _mouse_ – and he wonders what’s gotten into her today.

She’s _always_ alleviated his ache, let him release **_his_** Justin to ease _her_ grief, but she hasn’t called for _Justin_ , yet … She’s only spoken to _him_ … **_Clay Jensen_**.

The _sensitive_ , always-horny, **_practical_** - _virgin_.

He’s had her _countless_ times, but next to _her_ , with his _lack_ of experience … he’s **_always_** going to _feel_ like a virgin. It’s how she treats him with kid gloves … and whispers to him about his _sensitive_ skin … even how she touches him like he’s primed to spill in her _palm_ any second – and the even sadder part is that he **_is_** , even now. He’s _seconds_ from spilling for her.

He can’t help it, at **_all_**. And, god, how he’s **_tried_** _!_

“What, Clay? Hm? What do you **_truly_** want, Horny Boy?” she whispers with this deadly little laugh in her eyes. It’s _infuriating_ and mind-numbing at the same time!

The tantalizing brush of her fingers has sped, against the _tumid_ protrusion at his crotch, causing the high-friction rub of his boxer fabric to stimulate him to even **_further_** heights.

He can barely speak when she _does_ that – it feels like **_heaven_** , _bliss_ …

“F-Fuck!” he squeals and uses one of his hands to draw her closer, pushing the back of her hand right against her pelvis, where his throbbing cock so **_desperately_** longs to feel again, for itself. “I w-want _you_ , Jess! I f-fucking **_need_** you!”

He dips his head, sucking one of her nipples into his mouth, _teasing_ the bud with his tongue, readily.

“What if I say, _no_ , Clay?” she teases. “Will the _good_ boy in you pull back? Hm? Or will that good boy take a _backseat_ so you can take your _pleasure_ , anyway?”

He takes a while to puzzle out those words, to understand the _connotation_ she’s making with them.

Would he essentially **_rape_** her?

He draws back from her nipple, locks eyes with her, and gives her a lust-filled glance.

“Do you not _trust_ me, Jess?” he pants, able to breathe again, because she’s withdrawn _that_ hand which was all-but, _torturing_ his throbbing need.

Jess moves in closer, spreads her thighs and pushes her panty-clad mound **_hard_** , against his erection. She’s as close to him as two beings _can_ come without being joined as one, and he _feels_ her – **_everywhere_**.

Like she’s playing a **_game_** … toying with his _neediness_ …

He can’t help but lurch a bit, pushing his hips forward to grind himself against her through a smarmy mixture of their _clothes_ and trapped heat …

“I trust **_you_** , Clay,” she divulges, “but can I trust your **_needs_** _?_ Your _lusts?_ Your **_cock_** _?_ ” she asks him, deviantly, and he _permeates_ with color, “Or those _personalities?_ The ones you _told_ me about …”

Clay doesn’t like to _think_ about that dark, lingering _shadow_ inside of him. And he knows which one she’s **_really_** referencing with _carefully_ constructed words. The one _he_ fears … the one he keeps at bay because it _scares_ him that it exists … that it’s even _there_.

 ** _Bryce_**.

He keeps that taint buried _deep_ … but if she pushed _hard_ enough … if she _twisted_ him up … dug in her heels and **_pressed_** … was it possible the same thing that _nearly_ happened at the frat party could happen **_again_**? Would his mind _consider_ it, without his knowledge or **_consent?_**

He doesn’t _know_.

“I’d _never_ hurt you, Jess,” Clay whispers through baited breath, cupping her cheek, _needing_ to touch her skin, _somewhere_.

“ ** _You’d_** never hurt me … but would one of the **_other_** pieces of you come out and do as _they_ please? Would they, Clay? _Will_ _they?_ ”

“J-Jess …” he squeezes his eyes and _pants_ , hoarsely.

Jess grinds her hips _more_ profoundly against his need, until he can’t **_help_** himself – the _ache_ is too much – and he _feels_ his release.

Seed _spills_ into the fabric of his boxers, he grunts and clings to her like she’s a _lifeline_ and pushes himself **_hard_** against her sex, wishing he were _plunged_ inside of her right now, instead of cumming in his boxers like a virgin, **_again_**. He’s lost _control_ this way, more times than he can _count_ over the years. But it’s always **_most_** embarrassing when he does it with, _Jess,_ pressed against him, those _knowing_ chocolate brown eyes witnessing him come _apart_.

“ _F-Fuck_ …” he groans as his skin tightens and red embarrassment spreads across his cheeks like neon signs for what’s _occurred_.

But she _knows_ – like **_always_**. He sees it in her eyes, that **_deviant_** little tease.

“I guess you do have **_some_** control after all,” she teases with her lips grazing his ear.

He feels that embarrassing, sticky **_heat_** spread in his boxers and groans a bit, while he seeks solace in her _neck_ , kissing and **_sucking_** the skin.

“What _game_ is this? Huh, Jess?” he growls through the scalding **_roar_** of fire in his blood, thrumming like a beast, **_disturbed_**.

She tantalizes his skin, _further,_ with little brushes and _dalliances_ of her fingers, pushing the digits under his shirt to **_play_** with him all over. **_Still_** unbearably **_teasing_** him, because he’s _hot_ and **_achy_** – and she **_knows_** it. He’s always this _sensitive_ bundle of need **_whenever_** he cums. He’s most _responsive_ to her touches and **_kisses_** in the aftermath of their _exploits_.

“It’s **_ours_** , Clay,” she breathes, as he withdraws from her neck to _peer_ into her dark brown eyes.

“ ** _What’s_** ours, Jess?” he sighs, caressing the ridge of her cheek, slightly antsy from his unsatisfactory release.

“ _This_ …” she gestures between them, “… the **_game_**. Making each other _want_ and **_need_** it … testing the _boundaries_ , of what we can **_withstand_** ,” she insists, then kisses him harder and makes his skin _keen_ as she ambles down and **_brushes_** his stomach, _compellingly_.

“You just wanted to see if I’d _force_ you, if you made me _wait_ long enough?” he deduces, between kisses.

She brushes her hand against the _thorough_ wet stain in his boxers. “I wanted to see _who_ might come out … who might take **_for_** you …” she narrows her eyes, then shifts and lays back down drawing him up and **_over_** her.

He _complies_ with her wishes, pushing his still-swollen _need_ against the panel of her panties.

“I won’t let _any_ of them hurt you, Jess. Most of all, **_him_** ,” he doesn’t speak to her about those other personalities, he’s _learned_ to keep them at bay …

The stress he’d known all year at _school_ , seems to have faded away since they’ve been **_here_** , together – in their _own_ little oasis. Those pieces of him _only_ pushed through (according to Dr. Ellman) because of his stress and anxiety levels _pulsing_ through the roof.

“But you _feel_ them still … they’re still **_there_** , aren’t they, Clay? _He’s_ still there?” she shows a slight flicker of _fear_ in her dark eyes, that he catches onto, easily.

“I _suppose_ they are,” he admits, cautiously, “but they only come out if I **_want_** them to, Jess. If I _let_ them. They don’t have a **_hold_** over me anymore.”

She pushes her nose up, grazing his tentatively. “Monty was _scary_ enough …” she admits through a stiff breath, while _threading_ her fingers through his strands of hair.

Clay feels **_deep_** remorse for what happened at _camp_. He’ll always feel **_awful_** about that. “He was only **_fucking_** with you guys. Same as the _real_ Monty, did. I’m sorry, Jess. I’ll apologize a **_million_** times for it, if I _have_ to … it was a _coping_ mechanism to deal with those **_fucking_** _assholes_ … you and the others just got caught in the _crosshairs_ …” he _hates_ that he has to make **_excuses_** , but there’s nothing else to be _done_.

He wants the trust to blossom and **_grow_** between them, not dwindle into a _divide_. And most poignantly, he _never_ wants her to feel afraid or maltreated at **_his_** hands.

“I know, Clay. It was _just_ a _game_ …” she quips, sealing their lips together, again. Her fingers sliding up to lace, _evenly_ , through his, conjoining their hands as one.

“You _promise_ , Jess?” he asks, knowing his overanxious mind won’t let it rest, until he’s certain she’s not dissuading him from the truth. “Promise that it **_is_** just a _game?”_

He searches her eyes with a _fervor_ , trying to discern an answer from them.

She seems to catch on to his _fears_ , because she addresses them, _directly_ , “I promise, Clay. If you tell me they’ll _never_ hurt me – that **_he’ll_** never hurt me –” Clay shudders against her, bodily, “—then I _believe_ that. I believe **_you_** , Clay. You’ve taken _such_ good care of me … such **_good_** care …” she trails off, a few tears shedding down her cheeks and he hears her _sniffle_.

“Don’t _cry_ , Jess … _Please_ , don’t cry …” He always feels so **_helpless_** when she cries in his arms and she does so _often_.

It could be just something innately small that _alludes_ to Justin – and she’ll descend into a **_puddle_** in his arms. It wrenches him up inside to know how _deeply_ she’s scarred inside … to know how many _wounds_ she has that he can _never_ repair.

Wounds, that **_begin_** and _end_ , with him.

If he’d just stayed with Hannah, _that_ night … everything would have been _better_.

Jess wouldn’t be so _perilously_ damaged.

She bundles in close and pushes her face to his neck, until he feels the distinct heat of her tears, there, _hot_ on his skin.

“ _You’re_ not going to **_die_** on me, too, are you, C-Clay?” she stammers through her sniffles, tilting up her chin to _tearfully_ meet his eyes.

“W-What?” he breathes, not expecting such a hard-hitting question.

“Your _heart_ beats steadily … you breathe _evenly_ while you sleep … and your skin is _unmarked_ … except for what **_I’ve_** marked it with …” she lists off things _absently_ , while one of her fingers traces down his shirt collar to brush his sternum, _just_ underneath.

Clay feels the need to _kiss_ her – and he **_does_** – their lips combine in a categorically _sweet_ caress, there’s _sadness_ in it and Clay can feel it tearing at his heart. When she **_does_** retract, those _same_ weighted tears are **_still_** ever-present in her eyes.

“What are you _saying_ , Jess?” he almost hums, _wanting_ to understand.

“Just that …” her finger, still _methodically_ tracing his sternum, **_stills_** , “I ignored the _signs_ with Justin,” she finally admits, hastily, “If I had paid _closer_ attention – been more _worried_ —”

“Hey, no, Jess … this **_isn’t_** on you, okay? His death _isn’t_ on you …” Clay tries to assuage her guilt with _little_ touches to her cheeks and neck, while kissing various **_random_** places on her face.

She stops him with a _hand_ to his chest, nudging his face away with a _flitter_ of her head.

“You don’t _understand_ , Clay …” she whispers through choky breathes, “… I **_slept_** with him _often_ , not _just_ made love, but _slept_ in **_this_** bed with him …”

Clay remembers how _jealous_ he used to feel, curled up in his **_own_** bed at night, _lonely_ , watching Justin and Jess _canoodling_ in theirs. Kissing and trying to be _quiet_ underneath the covers, stifling their moans while they _lost_ themselves in the act. He remembers **_distinctly_** just _how_ lonely it made him feel. How completely **_alone_**.

“I fell asleep with my _head_ on his **_chest_** most nights. I remember _listening_ to his heart, hearing how _unsteady_ the beats were … **_erratic_** … and how … how _sometimes_ , his breaths would stifle and **_stop_** , then _shakily_ start up again …” she belays in this broken tone that has Clay’s stomach reeling, sympathetically, “… and I _saw_ the marks, marks **_I_** didn’t make on his skin, marks that _should_ have told me what was wrong …”

“ _Jess_ —”

“ _No_ , I **_knew_** , Clay … I _knew_ **_something_** was very _wrong_ with him. Why didn’t I _do_ something? He said he was _fine_ , but he wasn’t … I **_let_** him _die_ , Clay! I let my **_soulmate_** die! If I had gotten him help _sooner_ … If I’d _insisted_ , he see a _doctor_ … or _something_ … _anything!”_ she sobs, “his heartbeats changed a **_year_** before he died! A _year_ , Clay! And I **_knew_** his heart! I **_knew_** the beat, well! So why didn’t I _insist?_ Why didn’t I **_fight_** for him?” she’s coming apart at the _seams_ and Clay can no longer even staunch his **_own_** , sympathetic, tears.

Emotions _clog_ up his airway, and he **_chokes_** on them. He feels **_everything_** she feels, like an _empath_ , he’s overwhelmed by the crushing _weight_ of her emotions, bombarding _roughly_ into his.

“Justin was _stubborn_ … you _know_ he was … you couldn’t have **_forced_** him … I’m sorry, I’m so _fucking_ sorry, Jess …” he sobs, kissing her hair, pulling her near, _entwining_ his legs with **_hers_** , then peppering an _ocean_ of kisses across her neck, languidly.

“What can I _do_ , Jess? I’ll do **_anything_** … You _know_ I will …” he pleads for some kind of answer, something to mend at least a _portion_ of her pain – a _fragment_.

He shifts, uncomfortably, when he feels her knee push up _between_ his thighs, resting against the exurbanite _dampness_ at his crotch. The mess cooled and he can feel his _flaccidness_ , brush against her knee. He’s still remarkably _sensitive_ to her touch, _despite_ himself. He hisses out a breath as _pleasurable_ sensitivity, spirals through him. Jess notices, but she doesn’t _mention_ it, aloud.

“Don’t _die_ on me, Clay. Don’t die, **_ever_** … Just _stay_ with me,” she pleads in rebuke, dabbing at his tears, sloppily with her thumbs.

“I’m not _sick_ , Jess. I promise. I’m going to live a _long_ time, we **_both_** are …” he tells her, even though it’s the one thing he can’t _truly_ promise. He does, _anyway_.

Because neither of them can _bear_ the _burden_ of this grief anymore. Neither of them can **_helm_** it, and face _another_ day, not knowing if they’ll even survive, **_tomorrow_**.

“You don’t **_know_** that … what if I’ve _missed_ something? What if … What if I _haven’t_ paid close enough _attention_?” she rubs her index finger _repeatedly_ over his sternum, swirling the digit.

“We’ll play a **_new_** game, Jess,” he relents, drawing up her chin with a little tug, thumbing away her _cascading_ tears.

 _“A **game**?”_ she rubs her hands up and down the length of his chest, wearily.

He brings one of her hands up to _rest_ against his chest, over the thrumming **_beat_** of his heart.

“My heart beats _steadily_ , Jess. Our bodies, they **_react_** to each other …” he whispers in close to her lips, needing to calm her down, even though he’s still in _tears_ , himself.

“It’s _racing_ …” she counters, teary-eyed.

He forces a _chuckle_ through his tears, coughing a bit. “That’s because I’m **_really_** fucking _close_ to you, Jess. A beautiful, _half_ - ** _naked_** , girl. I can feel every _inch_ of you, hot up against me, and it makes me really fucking **_nervous_**. So, my heart races, but it still beats _repetitively_. It still displays my **_youth_**. My good **_health_**.”

She tries to draw her hand back, _now_ , but he reaches up and presses it _pointedly_ back down, keeping it there, **_hostage_**.

“ _Clay_ …” she breathes, but he shakes his head, silencing her.

“Feel how **_steady_** it is … feel how much I **_need_** you, Jess … how much I fucking **_love_** you …” he releases a breath of air, his heart patters _appropriately_ rising _profusely_ in response.

She **_stills_**.

They’ve never spoken about _loving_ each other … not the way **_he_** means it, in this moment. It’s been **_unspoken_** , but he’s lent his _heart_ to Jess. He’s given more than just his _soul_ to whatever this is. It’s chemical – _physical_ – and **_theirs_**.

 _Undefinable_ , by **_nature_**.

“ _Love_ …?” her tears are still brimming her eyes, but they’ve _stopped_ breaching the surface, and that little questioning hitch, he knows is _her_ way of inquiring what **_kind_** of love. What he’s **_confessed_** …

“ _Love_ ,” he breathes back, solidly. **_Unflinchingly_**.

“You said you couldn’t … that it wasn’t _possible_ …” She’d asked the week they started, if he believed he could **_ever_** love again. He’d told her he didn’t _know_ , but that he’d **_try_**. He’d try to _love_.

“What I _know_ is that you’re **_real_**. You’re warm, because your blood _flows_ and your heart **_beats_** , and you’d **_never_** willfully leave me, Jess. I know your **_soul_** – I know you’d _never_ do what **_she_** did …”

He can’t _say_ Hannah’s name out loud when he’s confessing these **_complicated_** emotions to Jess. This distinctly _feels_ like a betrayal of Hannah, already. He’s cried her **_name_** so many times when he’s laid **_with_** Jess … this feels even more _tainted_ somehow … **_more_** _twisted_ than even _that_ little bit of comfort he’s sought …

“… and I know that no one else, _living_ , can make me feel the way **_you_** do. We **_are_** lovers, Jess. In _all_ the ways it _matters_ , we _belong_ to each other. And maybe that’s _fucked up_ , I don’t _know_ … maybe we’ve made something _wrong_ between us, but I find that I don’t **_fucking_** care,” he gives her hand a squeeze and she shivers, closing her eyes.

“I don’t _either_ , Clay. Fuck what anyone _else_ thinks of us. I’ve never **_cared_** about that,” she manages to say with only a _slight_ quiver in her voice.

He knows he’s **_succeeded_** in subduing her panic, at least for the _time_ being, and releases a breath of **_air_** in relief.

“This will be _our_ game, Jess. Right **_here_**. This _bed_ will be our _game **board**_ , and our _skin_ the _game **pieces**_ ,” he explains, throatily, fighting back a _fresh_ wave of emotion.

“I don’t _understand_ , Clay … What’s the _game?”_

He gently rubs the hand he’d still been holding tightly-pressed over his rapid heart. “We’ll call it ‘ _Forget and Remember_ ,’ how’s that sound?” he continues, without waiting for her response, “We’ll play it whenever one of us needs to forget or remember. Forget the things that haunt us … _Justin_ … _Hannah_ —” he croaks out the name, “—fucking **_Bryce_** , the world … whatever …” he rattles off things sporadically, “… we’ll place our hand right _here_ …” he canoodles her hand with his fingers, pushing the relaxed fingers back down against his chest, splayed out, “… and we’ll look into each other’s eyes, and the other person will _know_ that it’s serious … that one of us **_needs_** to forget … or _remember_ …” he explains.

Clay releases her hand, but she keeps it pressed there, _steadily_ keeping eye contact with him.

“ _Then_ what, Clay? What happens _then?_ ” she whispers.

“We put our hand _here_ to remember that the other person is alive. That **_we’re_** still fucking, _alive_ , Jess. To remember that our hearts _are_ still beating. _Feel_ the beating …” he whispers.

“Your heart’s _still_ beating, Clay,” she whispers, brokenly.

“ _Exactly_ , Jess. And when one of us needs to forget about the hearts that aren’t still beating, then we’ll play the game, we’ll make them _forget_ … or **_remember_** …” He knows he’s shit at explaining the thoughts in his head. He can hear them rattling around in his mind, but he _needs_ them to emerge. He needs her to understand the **_concept_** of what he’s telling her.

With a sigh, he rolls their intertwined bodies, until she’s on her _back_ , and he kisses her, full-on the lips for an instant, then pulls up, breathlessly, “Tell me what you _need_ , Jess? To forget or remember?” he coaxes, easing open her thighs to accommodate himself, between.

“ _Forget_ …” she whispers, “... I _need_ to forget …” she pauses for a second, before her expression turns somewhat numb, “I keep thinking about **_Bryce_** … I can still **_see_** him, Clay. I can see him, _hovering_ over me, pushing me into the _bed_ … I … I felt him when _we_ …” she closes her eyes, breathes deep then pushes out a breath, “it’s been _really_ bad these past days … the **_flashes_** …” she struggles to explain, while he feels his chest _tighten_ with concern, “I want to _forget_ what his **_touch_** feels like, Clay … I … just … just for _right_ now … **_today_** … make me _forget_ …” she’s pleading with him in this gentle, murky cocoon of limber depravity, and he allows it to pull him in, despite that ever-present pit in his stomach, from what she’s _just_ revealed.

He feels a stringent _pain_ in his chest at the thought of Jess associating his touch … _their_ touches … with those of **_pain_**.

He pushes the thought from his mind, focusing back on _her_ – on what she’s **_asked_**.

“ _Forget,_ it is,” he whispers, with a tremor in his chords.

Pliantly, he slides a hand down between her thighs, swirling a thumb around her clitoris, tenderly. She’s dark and swollen down there. He can see the _distinct_ puffiness of her lower petals and knows it’s from their **_constant_** pleasure-seeking. They rut like wild _beasts_ sometimes, and he forgets to be **_cautious_** – _gentle_ – when he’s at his _horniest_. Is that why she’s **_assimilated_** his touches with those meant to maim? –Meant to _intimidate?_

Her gasp brings him back to the present, and he _watches_ as she throws back her head with a tiny little hiss through her teeth. Her hand that’s _still_ over his heart falls away, and lays to rest near her head. His mouth finds **_solace_** in the taste of her neck as he grapples with how to _approach_ her request.

“Think about **_me_** , Jess. **_Us_** ,” he orders, between scorching kisses, leaving wet trails behind on her neck, “Think about **_all_** the times it’s felt _good_ between us …” he closes his eyes, seeking to stave off the piece of his heart that’s opened so wide for her that it’s made him _vulnerable_ , “… think about how _good_ it felt with Justin … how good **_he_** made you feel …”

More pain encroaches on his heart as he thinks about Justin. The **_real_** Justin, that he’s only ever _emulated_ with his subconsciousness, for her. He realizes what a **_poor_** pretender he must be in _actuality_. – A poor **_imposter_**.

Jess’s noises rise in level, when he _mentions_ , Justin. She slickens **_considerably_** at her entrance, and he feels jealousy, but also this lingering sadness. Sadness, because she’ll _never_ have the boy she loves, again. She’ll _forever_ be burdened, same as he is, and he wouldn’t wish that kind of _deeply_ rooted agony on **_anyone_**.

He pushes the pain down deep, lets a bit of his _darker_ pieces show, while he strains to make her **_forget_**.

“ _Clay_ …” she whines his name, bucking toward his fingers, “… **_mix_** the games …” she pants it out like it’s an _order_.

“What games?” he whispers back, while watching her make little noises, drawing closer to that _elusive_ edge.

“ _Mine_ and **_yours_** …” she keens out.

He _understands_ then, and he lets the push in his stomach, run free, “I was **_never_** asleep, Jess,” he admits, his voice taking on a harder edge, fingers twirling faster against her clit, “when you and Justin used to **_fuck_** right here, in _this_ bed, I’d lay in mine and _listen_ … pleasure myself under the shelter of _my_ covers if the need became too great to _bear_ ,” this was _his_ secret shame, something he’d **_never_** told anyone, and that he’d _buried_ in the darkest _recesses_ of his mind, pretending for the longest time these memories _didn’t_ exist, “and I was jealous of _him_ , for having you – for having _someone_ when I **_didn’t_** have _anyone_.”

Jess’s body descends into _exuberant_ spasms, back arching pertinently off the mattress.

“Y-You _watched_ us?” she gasps, seconds from hitting her peak. He can tell by the distant **_stretch_** in her eye.

He tilts down, pushes a finger up inside her silky-drenched, entrance and thumbs her clit, _repetitively_ in languid swirls.

“All the _time_ ,” he confesses, just before she cascades over her peak, dragging her **_nails_** down his back, drawing blood to the surface, while he _hisses_ through his teeth.

She’s lost herself to the mixture of his touch and those whispered words. Clay revels in the spasms he’s invoked, pushes his fingers _deeper_ into her sex, twirls around her clit until she’s physically tremoring, **_everywhere_**.

“Did you spill in your _boxers_ when you watched and touched?” she breathes in a moaning pant, still riding out her varied releases.

He growls when he hears that little question, practically feels it in his veins, preparing to sear him apart from the inside. “ ** _Always_** , Jess,” he manages to rasp out, between thick swallows, “I’d cum and I’d _listen_ to your sounds … listen to you make **_love_** with him.”

He feels _shame_ when he admits what he’d done, but also a sense of _relief_ because it’s all out in the open – his secret crimes in the shadowy darkness.

Jess finally simmers down from her _spasming_ releases and he ebbs off from circling her clit, sighing his relief against the skin of her neck. She’s become his whole **_world_** and that scares him, because he has so much to lose, **_again_** , and she’s so broken that he knows he just _might_ lose her, too, if he’s not careful … not **_observant_** this time. Same as _Jess_ , lost **_Justin_**.

She cups the ridge of his jaw and delicately brushes the _slant_ of his neck, causing him to shiver.

“Were you _always_ attracted to me, Clay?” her question shocks his system and causes his heart to palpitate a few times, unsteadily. He wasn’t _expecting_ it, it came out of left field.

“I …” his voice trails off and he clears his throat, trying to _collect_ his thoughts. He’s _always_ said the wrong thing and he doesn’t _want_ to do that again. He’s formed this bond with Jess, now. It’s one that he **_never_** wants to fade away – to **_die_**.

Whether they play _games_ , or make love, he wants to be _near_ her, now, **_always_**.

“You’re **_beautiful_** , Jess …” he sighs out, still feeling his stomach clench with regret every time he remembers that he didn’t simply tell _Hannah_ she was beautiful, when she asked. It’s one of his _worst_ regrets … one he can **_never_** rectify, now.

“And you’ve **_always_** thought so?” she whispers and he sees her eyes searching his, seeking his truth.

He bobs his head, sliding his fingers through her _lengthy_ tresses of hair. “How could I **_not_** _?”_ he whispers, breathily, “You’re _well_ out of my league, most girls **_are_** …”

She furrows her brow, pushing her nose into his cheek, seemingly playful. “You sell yourself short, Clay … You’re handsome and sweet … and you care, so much …” she’s rubbing his shoulders and tweaking his skin, making him shiver and quaver against her.

“I wasn’t enough for, Hannah …” the words slip out before he can catch himself. His thoughts fell to the wayside the second he heard Jess whisper her fears about Bryce. It’s burned deep into his psyche – the fear that he might **_unintentionally_** harm her.

“Clay …” Jess slides her hand up over his neck, grazing his cheek, _sensually_. It makes his skin purr from it, and the need in him **_reignites_** , suddenly, like a stringent burn in the pit of his stomach.

His eyes close and he bites back _tears_ , trying not to feel how badly his heart is _aching_ right now in his chest. And he finds he’s _too_ choked up to speak.

 _“Forget_ or **_remember_** , _Clay?”_ she coos lovingly against his ear-shell, while her hand grazes up and down the length of his chest.

He closes his eyes, allowing a few of his tears to shed profusely down his cheeks, because he suddenly feels waves of sadness as flashes of Hannah clouds his vision.

“ ** _Forget_** ,” he chokes out, not _wanting_ to feel this hollow ache any longer.

There is so much pain mounting in him … so many regrets. It’s like he _absorbed_ hers, fed off of it, and is now being **_overpowered_** by them all. He connected, **_too_** , deeply with Jess – and gave too _much_ of himself _away_ in the process.

“Shh … okay, Baby … _okay_ …” she rolls him over and he allows his back to _hit_ the mattress, his eyes following her movements through a _blur_ of tears.

“I’m right **_here_** , Clay … right here with _you_ …” she promises him, causing his heart to flutter.

She kisses trails down his chest, and when she reaches the damp _crotch_ of his boxers, she helps peel them down his thighs, leaving him _naked_ for her, his member already erect and raring to go, **_again_**.

“I love you, too, Clay,” she spews out, out of nowhere and gives him a _mischievous_ little twinkle in her eye. “It felt **_wrong_** … like a betrayal of, _Justin_ , but I do … I love **_you_** , Clay.”

He relinquishes a cry when her hand coils around his protruding phallus, rubbing and _easing_ his length, immediately distracting his mind – filling it with **_clouds_**.

“J-Jess …” he hisses, because she _knows_ what this **_does_** to him … he’s so compulsively _sensitive_ to her touch, especially after he’s already came, _once_.

“I _know_ , Clay. I know your body **_better_** than you do, now,” she whispers, “and you’re _not_ going to cum, yet. You’re going to hold _back_ for me,” she instructs and his cock twitches at the sound of her command. It’s so _certain_ and **_determined_**.

Clay’s tears have ceased and he realizes that he’s been _sucked_ into the vortex that is, Jess … She’s **_his_** oasis. His _safe_ space, now – and their newfound game is **_working_**.

“J-Jess … _fuck_ …” he can see her nipples puckered and hard, through the opening in Justin’s letterman jacket, along with the damp spot in her _panties_ , and he’s hot and needy again, in a second.

He sees her head turn back toward the table, her hand still _lightly_ easing his length up and down, while her free hand reaches for **_something_**. He recognizes his sketchbook, when it comes into view, and wets his lips with his tongue.

“You drew _me_ …” she stills her hand, and he throbs in her fist, on the verge of _another_ orgasm. She must have felt it, because she _doesn’t_ move her hand again, just holds him _tightly_ in place until his balls _clench_ and **_ache_**.

“Y-Yeah … I _did_ …” he admits in a low voice, running his tongue along his _dry_ lips, shakily.

She smiles, subtly, then puts his sketchbook back aside and _relaxes_ her grip on him.

“No _wonder_ you wanted me **_so_** badly, Baby,” she teases, then ( _without_ _warning_ ) peels her panties to one side, straddles him and sinks down on his length, all at once.

He groans and throws back his head, almost cumming on _insertion_ , **_alone_**

“Shit … **_Jess_** …” he’s lost for words, when she begins to _move_ , riding him, pushing his arms down _into_ the mattress.

“You’re **_mine_** , Clay Jensen. You and all of the personalities that live _inside_ of you _. Understand?”_ she breathes against his lips, letting him taste her breath.

He moans in a frenzy of lust and passion, knowing he _isn’t_ going to be able to hold back much longer – he’s so **_sensitive_** – and she’s so **_tight_** …

“I-I’m **_yours_** …” he repeats, his mind drawing a _blank_ , his skin fiery hot to the touch.

“And you’re going to _cum_ for me, right **_now_** ,” she orders, “you’re going to let go for me like the horny boy you _are_ , and remember who you _belong_ to while you do it,” she teases and that’s all it takes for him to _spill_ , on **_command_**.

His eyes roll back and he spends inside of her, feeling her tight walls clamping around him. He grunts and strains, trying to _free_ his wrists from her hold, because he wants to **_touch_** her – but she doesn’t let up. She keeps him pinned until he’s _writhing_ and **_bucking_** under her, returning her kisses with sloppy fervor, all traces of his past pain from moments ago, _forgotten_ in his present.

It takes him a _long_ time to settle down from the high she’s _invoked_ but when he does, he finds she’s sprawled out beside him, with her fingers **_dancing_** around his chest, listening _keenly_ to his beating heart.

His cheeks are flushed with color, skin laced with sweat, and he winds his arms _around_ her, tight.

“Did you _mean_ it, Jess?” he heaves out, letting the air recoup in his lungs.

She smiles up at him, languidly. “Of course, I did. We **_belong_** to each other now, Clay. Games or not, we’re permanently tethered … **_forever_** …” she belays in an almost saddened tone.

“Is that what you **_want_** , Jess? Forever?” he asks, suddenly interested.

She sets her jaw and finally offers a nod of her head in recognition. “Forever is what I’ve **_always_** wanted, Clay … but if we _talk_ about it … if we **jinx** it …”

“I _know_ , Jess … I **_know_** …” he understands her sadness all of the sudden and _seals_ a shallow kiss against her forehead. “We _won’t_ talk about it … we’ll just keep _playing_ the game …” He lifts her hand and presses it next to where her ear is still pressed. Just _next_ to his steadily **_beating_** heart.

“We’ll keep _feeling_ heartbeats … keep remembering, _every_ **_day_** …” he promises.

She nods then, but doesn’t _say_ anything more, until eventually they are drifting off, tangled in a _mass_ of arms and legs.

* * *

  



End file.
